


The First Appointment

by GeckoGirl89



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Chronic Pain, Gen, Killer Visions, Possible Angel/Cordelia Subtext, Season/Series 02, doctor visit, impending major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeckoGirl89/pseuds/GeckoGirl89
Summary: "Miss Chase, I honestly don't know what's wrong with you, and as of now, I'm not sure how to fix it. But your scans don't look good."





	The First Appointment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on comment-fic (http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/832585.html?thread=104345417#t104345417): any, any, chronic pain
> 
> Takes place after 2.10 Reunion and before 2.15 Reprise, based on speculation that Cordy started getting brain scans around this time according to what was said in 3.11 Birthday. Possible Angel/Cordelia subtext, but not very shippy since this is during the "beige period," which was a low point for their relationship.

Cordelia is sitting alone in an office that is supposed to be soothing, she supposes. The pleasant painting of a beach scene and the subtle beige color of the walls is probably designed to relax her and the other patients who come to Dr. Martinez.  
  
But the light is too bright for her now, even though it's a lot dimmer than the exam room. And that ticking of the clock might as well be booming thunder, for how the noise is exacerbating her headache.  
  
Headache, what a joke. Hell, even the word "migraine" doesn't cover it. The feeling of hot lava being poured into her skull combined with intense emotional trauma is what she experiences every time she has a vision. All thanks to the "gift" Doyle had passed to her before he died. The visions give her a sense of purpose, but Cordelia often finds herself wishing she could send the gift back with a huge "Fuck you very much" note attached. Seriously, Doyle, a little bit of jewelry would have been far more to her taste.  
  
They've been getting worse lately. For a while, there would be times that the pain would go away, usually right after the rest of the team went and took care of the vision. But now, instead of the pain leaving, it only fades slightly to a dull, persistent throb in her head. Cordelia has been trying to just tough it out because she's Queen Goddamn C and she isn't about to get all weak and weepy about this. A few nights ago she had realized she couldn't do it anymore. Her head hurt so much that she had been reduced to pathetically crying into her pillow all night. When morning came (without any rest), Dennis had waved a telephone book in front of her until she had scheduled an appointment with a neurologist.  
  
So now she's here, sitting in front of a big oak desk and waiting for the doctor to come tell her what he found on the MRI. He's taking his sweet time about it, and it's freaking Cordy out more than a little. She idly wishes she had someone to talk to, but she knows in her heart of hearts that it was right to not tell Gunn or Wes about this. There's no need to worry them if the doctor doesn't find anything, and the group has been going through more than enough since Angel decided to fire everyone and go on his revenge mission against Wolfram and Hart.  
  
Angel. God, she feels so pissed at him and not just because her migraines make her feel irritated with the whole goddamn planet sometimes. Buried underneath all of her anger is a deep hurt because she dedicated herself to his mission and he just abandoned it. All of the friendship, faith, and trust she felt for Angel apparently meant nothing to him. There's also a heavy dose of bitter envy that coils in her gut whenever she thinks of him now. Because as hard as it is for a 250-year-old vampire trying to atone for his bloody, soulless past, it's also pretty damn hard to be the seer, to feel the pain of all the victims Angel is supposed to be saving. And when the going gets tough, Angel can just walk away from it all and go into some kind of self-indulgent downward spiral. Cordelia can't, even if she feels herself drowning under the torment of the visions a little more each and every day.  
  
Her sullen thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She plasters on the same fake grin she gives Wes or Gunn right after a vision hits, that she used to give Angel back when he gave a crap about her. There's been a sharp edge to her smile ever since Angel fired everyone, and Cordy hates the idea that she could be reverting to her bitchy high school persona in her misery. Except for her shark-like smile, she has thus far avoided regressing back to who she used to be.  
  
The doctor barely glances at her before shutting the door and walking over to his desk. Cordelia's smile flickers at the obvious avoidance tactic, but it returns by the time the doctor is sitting down and looking at her.  
  
"So, what's up, doc?" she quips. "Got the 411 on what's going on in cabeza de Cordelia?"

Dr. Martinez clears through his throat awkwardly and glances up at Cordelia with a guilty expression. His big brown eyes remind her of the miserable eyes of the puppy in the beginning of that ASPCA commercial they've been showing on TV a lot lately. She twists her suddenly shaking hands together, because she knows that this is a bad sign.  
  
"Miss Chase, I honestly don't know what's wrong with you, and as of now, I'm not sure how to fix it. But your scans don't look good."  
  
Cordelia points over at a diploma hanging on the wall over his right shoulder. "But, but you went to Harvard!" But it's not like Harvard Medical School offers courses in demonology or mystical seer medicine. Still, she has to cling to something that will bolster her denial.  
  
He tries to give her a reassuring smile, but it comes out as a pained grimace. "I've done this for a long time, but I've never seen a case like yours before." He holds out a scanned file and Cordy leans forward to look at it. He points to a red area of the scan. "The red areas are hot areas, which one would see from a healthy, functional brain." He moves his finger to a green area of the scan and taps it with his finger. "That green and yellow portion, and the others like it are areas of neuro-electrical deterioration." He passes forward more scans to Cordelia, all of which show some areas of yellow and green.  
  
Cordelia collects them and bites down on her lower lip as she looks them over. She's not going to cry, goddamnit. "What, what does all this mean? In English please."  
  
She raises her gaze to the doctor again, who lets out a weary sigh. "Cordelia, I've never seen scans this bad in the first appointment before with patients who weren't admitted to the E.R. due to severe head trauma. I couldn't see a tumor in your scans today, but I suspect you have advanced brain cancer."  
  
Cordy swallows the lump lodged in her throat. "I'm dying?" she asks, but she already knows the answer. This isn't cancer, and even the best neurologist in the world wouldn't know how to treat it.  
  
"With aggressive treatment, hopefully you won't," the doctor claims, which is as close an admission to the truth as he's willing to make. That word "hopefully" rings out like a death knell. Dr. Martinez isn't making promises he won't be able to keep.  
  
The rest of their conversation passes in a blur. Cordelia is handed brochures about her alleged condition and the doctor starts talking to her about the possibilities of chemotherapy and the course of treatment if she has cancer, which she already knows that she doesn't. Somehow, she leaves the office and books an appointment with the receptionist for next week.  
  
The receptionist hands her the prescription for some powerful pain medication Cordelia's never even heard of before with a pitying expression that the old her would have probably responded to with a caustic retort. But she's too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to give into her inner bitch right now.  
  
"Do you need me to call a cab for you, hon?"  
  
Cordelia smiles, and it feels brittle. "I have a friend picking me up, thanks." She doesn't, but saying so will keep the receptionist off her back. It's just a little lie, but Cordelia hates having to be dishonest.

She exits the waiting room and walks through the corridors of the hospital in a daze. She makes it through the parking lot and is inside her car before it all finally hits her and she bursts into tears. She's not even twenty years old and she's already dying. Her life is flashing before her eyes, and it hasn't been completely empty, but it still hasn't been enough. There's so much she had wanted to experience and to become, but now all of those dreams and hopes will amount to nothing.  
  
But she doesn't have time to dwell on any of that, because she needs to pick up her prescription before the pharmacy closes tonight. Maybe afterwards, she will go to the grocery store to pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry's for a movie night with Dennis. He's the one dead guy Cordy can always count on.  
  
Cordy forces herself to stop sniffling and glances up in the makeup mirror, wincing at how messed up her mascara is from crying. She pulls out a few Kleenexes to dab away the worst of it before she tosses them into the bottom of her purse.  
  
She takes in a deep, cleansing breath before she starts the car to drive away and move on with her life the best she can after getting this awful news. After all, she's Cordelia. That's just what she does.


End file.
